leather jacket
by realmsoffreedom
Summary: he is covered and he is recovering. trigger warning for self harm.


**hi. bet y'all thought you'd seen the last of me, eh? well, i was rewatching some episodes in season 2 (and rereading because of you) and there was a scene where patricia and eddie were wearing these matching leather jackets, and my mind just...ran with it, tbh**

**before anyone asks about because of you: i don't know if/when i'll continue it. i started rewriting it and wrote one chapter, but part of me just wants to continue even though my old writing style bugs me and part of me wants to completely redo it so we'll see what happens lmao**

**anyway yeah this is very heavily triggering for self-harm. there's mention of abuse too. also no mystery. not set in the because of you universe. completely separate. also please tell me what y'all think of this! i'm playing around with writing more oneshots (for more couples, not just peddie) depending on the response this gets. **

**but yeah enjoy**

* * *

He remembers the day he bought it.

It was a particularly hot day in late July. School had let out only a few days earlier, for summer vacation. It was him and his skateboard and the streets of New York City, reunited once again. Taking in the smells of ethnic cuisines from all the street venders, swerving at the last second to avoid gaggles of tourist families, turning up his music and letting himself slip into autopilot as he drifted down street upon street, sweating.

It was so hot. The cotton of his hoodie stuck easily to the back of his shirt, dampened and molded to his body with perspiration. It was hot and sticky and _gross_, _god why did you have to put yourself in this situation this is your fault you can't complain you did this this is your fault-_

He couldn't stop. He couldn't force himself to. The openings in his skin were the only reason there weren't more scars within, the only reason he could still get out of bed and get on with his life and get the grades he was supposed to, _perfection has a price and every person you think has it together is doing something that breaks them in private, and you're no different_.

And he tried. Really, he did. He tried flushing his blades and getting rid of all the unopened razors, tried to go without for as long as he could possibly last.

He made it a day.

It was a day and then he was scratching at his arms, digging his fingernails into his skin, trying to rip and pull and _tear_, _I need it it hurts I can't do this I wasn't meant to do this it fucking hurts I can't please-_

So, yeah. He was wearing long sleeves in ninety-five degrees, dripping sweat and allowing his sweatshirt to become a second skin, all because he wasn't strong enough to handle the hurt any other way. He still isn't. It's still sick. He still can't help it.

He saw the jacket in a shop window, over a grey graphic tee and some black jeans. The mannequin's style that day was incredible. And the jacket…he remembers skating past the shop at first, lingering for just a moment before deciding it was too much and he wasn't deserving, _it's probably gonna be like, a hundred bucks. You can't afford that. And she'll fucking kill you if she finds out. _

But he couldn't stay away. He took a lap around the block, and still managed to end up right in front of the window once again, staring and admiring, _leather jackets are actually in right now. You wouldn't be the freak wearing a hoodie in the dead of summer anymore. People would stop asking questions. _She_ would stop asking questions._

And the shop owner must've seen how in love he was – and, how desperate he looked – because she gave it to him for only forty bucks. Forty bucks later, and he was the brand new owner of a _badass_ leather jacket.

He remembers the first time he put it on. He'd raced home, sweating even more profusely, if that was possible – shortcuts and running, at times, with his board in hand, trying to avoid the directionally confused parents and crying children that overtook the entirety of he sidewalk – ignored the questions as soon as he burst through the door, ran up to his room, peeled off the sweatshirt that was completely stuck to his body – _god you're so fucking gross what the fuck is wrong with you – _and then-

It brought tears to his eyes, and he remembers feeling so fucking stupid for crying, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't stop it. His tear ducts were open and there was no room for the barriers his body was trying to put down.

Because, for the first time in his life, he was looking in the mirror and he was _proud_, of what stared back at him. Not ashamed. Not self-conscious. Not hyperaware of his arms and how his sweatshirt sat and whether brushing against something would have him bleeding again.

He was proud.

And now, six months later, he still is.

His old cuts are fading scars and the newer ones are a week old – he's trying but he can't and he knows he needs to stop but it's harder than it looks and every time he tries to quit completely he ends up relapsing worse than he has in the past – and he wears that leather jacket every damn day. Sometimes his beloved hoodie makes a reappearance, but aside from blazer that's part of school uniform, he's living in that jacket.

He thought someone would've asked about it by now.

In America, everyone did. _It's summer. You're inside. What are you hiding, anyway? You're gonna havta take it off some time, and when you do, we'll all see whatever the fuck it is. _People poked and prodded and pulled at his sleeves when they got too curious, and every single interaction had his heart speeding up, a new layer of perspiration to add to the premonition of his own peril because _fuck if they find out I am so fucking doomed I'm gone there's no coming back from that they can't find out I-_

But his anxieties were irrelevant inquiries – _breathe. No one's looking at you. No one even gives a shit. You don't have anything to panic over. No one's looking at you. No one cares. Breathe – _and he finally feels like he can drift into autopilot, turn on cruise control and let himself go, for the first time in his life. He doesn't have to care this much. He doesn't have to freak out about it. No one cares. It's not a big deal.

And it's not just about covering up his arms. It's more than that. It's him and his hallmark and a reminder of how Herculean this all is. He's trying to stop but it's not about old anxieties anymore, trying to keep his arms covered, constantly cowering at the back of the room, avoidant and unable to break free from the cycle, _they can't know no one can know you can't draw attention to yourself they can't find out if you don't give anyone a reason to pay attention to you no one will find out they can't-_

It's the addition to any outfit, the accent that adds far more than it takes away, it's _pull this on and look complete, _no longer wrought with remnants of the boy he left behind. The sad boy, the anxious boy, the boy who was so afraid of the world finding out just how deep it had cut him. It is him and he is covered but he is comfortable, now. He is covered and no one is asking questions anymore. He is covered but it is no longer for the sake of being covered.

He is covered and he is _recovering_.

* * *

She's covered, too.

Probably not for the same reason he is – god fucking forbid – it's more likely a fashion statement, but her affinity with her leather jacket matches his. Maybe that's why no one's questioned him yet. Maybe that's why Amber thinks they're perfect for each other. Maybe that's why she was the person he gravitated to from the beginning, arrived and analyzed and set his sights on becoming friends with the goth girl, with the Doc Martens and fishnet tights and dark lipstick she doesn't leave the house without.

She's loud and unapologetic and brash – at first interaction – and he was wary, in the beginning. She's not someone he ever thought he would grow to _like_, let alone want to be with, for the rest of his life. And he would never say those words out loud, _you've only known each other for four months and been dating for one. It's too soon. To soon to know and too soon to talk about it. You'll scare her away. _

But this is the first time the darkness has felt like a duet, like someone shares in his pain and knows why he acts the way he does. He's not weird or crazy or a _freak_, anymore, when he's with her. She's pressing her hand against his back and moving so their sides are connected, feeling his heart rate spike and switching into that mode automatically.

They don't talk about it. She never brings it up. And he sees it in her eyes, the same kind of exhaustion that pulls at him on days that are too much. _You okay, Yacker? Can I help? _It's always been a _no. I'm fine. Don't worry about it. It's nothing._

But he _does_ worry about it. He can't not. Because those days are becoming more and more frequent, and he refuses to allow her to live in her torment, alone, for much longer.

"Hey." He keeps his voice at a whisper – they're having breakfast and everyone is around, for once, a rarity on Sunday morning – and turns his head to speak into Patricia's ear. "Come somewhere with me."

"Where? What's up?"

"You'll see."

"Aw, you guys got a daaaate?" Alfie draws out the 'a' in the last word, and he rolls his eyes, as everyone else's gazes turn to them.

"Yeah, actually," he says. "We're gonna be gone all day. Don't send a search party."

"That's so cute!"

"Oh my god, my Peddie heart…"

"Amber!"

"That's fine, lovely." Trudy sets another plate of pancakes in the middle of the table – that Alfie and Mick simultaneously attack, immediately – she meets his eyes with a smile. "Just be home before dark, okay?"

"We will."

* * *

"So, you kinda never told me where we're going…"

"That was _kinda_ the point," he replies. "It's a surprise."

"I hate surprises." She crosses her arms over her chest, but keeps walking, staying in line with him. He rolls his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets. He knows, if he tried to put his arm around her shoulders, that she would turn around and punch him. He knows they're not there yet. He's not even ready, to be there. He's thought about it, and it always ends in his heart going too fast and the world starting to blur at its edges, _can't think about that can't breathe no-_

"You'll like this one," he quips. "Just follow me."

He leads her off campus – officially, past the gate and the boundary that marks how much land the school has – and they continue to walk for a while, down sidewalks, on the edge of roads, through some damp grass from the rain last night – Patricia glowers at that, _I'm gonna get mud on my new boots, fuck you – _until he stops in front of an empty parking lot.

"There's nothing here!" Patricia's gaze travels all the way around the area, and then lands on him. "What's this "big surprise" you had to show me?"

"You know how I used to skate, back in America?" She nods. He smiles and motions to the lot. "I came here a lot. Right after I first got here. I was so wrapped up in my head and I needed to be by myself, and Yacker, believe me when I say, _no one_ comes here. No cars. Ever. And- fuck, look." He points to a ledge off to the side, and then starts to make his way toward it. "I think we're like, ten feet, up? Something like that. I'd come here and sit on the ledge and listen to music and I dunno, it was like- my thinking place, y'know? Still is. I don't come here as often anymore, but it's nice to know it's here."

"This is where you'd go after school…" She says the words slow, joins him, presses her thighs against the wall and rests her hands on the ledge. "We didn't see you for hours. I always wondered what the hell you were doing, for that long."

"I was here."

"How'd you find this?" Patricia takes a seat on the ledge and scoots to the left, until her back hits one of the surrounding buildings' walls.

"I was just skating around one day. So many people were pissing me off and I needed to get away, and I ended up here."

"Was it the day you had that really bad fight with your dad?" She looks up at him, and he winces, forces down a swallow and closes his eyes.

"Yeah. How'd you remember that?"

She turns away. Her next words, when she says them, are much quieter, "because…the next morning, I asked you for the pitcher of orange juice at breakfast, and when you lifted your arm, it looked like it hurt."

"You…what-" He cuts himself off. He has to. His heart starts to race. It feels separate, distanced, from everything else, like the muscle is sending out more doses of panic into his bloodstream, with each new beat. His entire body feels like that, like he's floating, swaying, heat wrapping its warm coat around his shoulders and then turning cool in seconds. "You…"

"It's okay! Eddie! Hey, look at me." Patricia's voice is still so soft. "I didn't wanna say anything. I knew you weren't ready to talk about it. And I get it. You don't have to freak out. It's okay."

"S-so…you know, then…"

"Fuck, come on, sit down." Patricia grips his shoulders and his entire body jerks. He lets her lower him down to the ledge, and moves to press his back against the wall, rest his head against it and breathe, _in, one. two. three. out, one. two three. in. out. in. out. you're fine. keep breathing. you're fine._

He focuses all of his attention on that, keeps taking large gulps of air that travel deep into the hollows of his chest and linger, pressing themselves into every pain plant, giving them some much needed water, after the wicked long dry spell. He breathes. _In, out. Keep going. You're fine. _He breathes.

When he opens his eyes, Patricia is staring at him. She has one hand on his upper arm and she's leaning forward. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry." He blows out another long breath. "I just- I didn't know you…"

"Yeah…" She trails off too, sits back against the other wall and stretches her feet out. "I didn't wanna ask you about it, but I was worried. I've _been_ worried. Just didn't know how ta bring it up, y'know? Not exactly dinner conversation."

"'Hey, I think you're cutting yourself, so I was just wondering…are you?'" He mocks. "It's…it's a lot, Yacker. I guess I didn't wanna- these are my problems, from America, and I think- I just wanted to leave them there, y'know?" He swings his legs up onto the ledge as well, and relaxes his knees until his shoes are touching Patricia's.

"Because everything's awful and you can't stop hurting yourself, but you don't want people to know you as that. The basket case they need to watch whenever even the smallest thing goes wrong." Patricia doesn't meet his gaze. "Yeah. I get that."

"I-" Patricia leans forward, and starts to shrug out of her jacket. He hears her take in a breath, loud, long, and heavy, and then, she flips her arms over.

"Yacker…"

He reaches out, but stops, hands inches from her wrist. He looks back up at her. "Can I?"

She nods, and he bites his lip as he pulls her left arm toward him. She's shaking. He can feel it as soon as he touches her skin. She has goosebumps. Her palms are starting to sweat. He presses his palm against hers and interlocks their fingers, and then uses his other one to brush across her scarred forearm.

"Jerome's the only other person who knows. I haven't even told Joy."

"Why Jerome?" He can't look up. He can't take his eyes off the image that is dangerously close to what's hiding under his own leather jacket. He's seen all of it before, and that's what's making his stomach churn, turn in on itself and slosh around painfully. He feels sick.

"Believe it or not, he was my first friend here," Patricia says. "My parents dumped me here when I was eleven, and he was the only other kid in Anubis. The only other kid I liked, anyway. But yeah- he- he did it too."

"He-"

"He's okay with people knowing," Patricia interrupts. "It's why he wears short sleeves and doesn't worry about it anymore. But, if you look really close at his arms, you'll see them." She pauses, shaking her head. "He's past it. Like- four years clean, I think? It'll be four in a couple weeks. He's doing really good."

"I had no idea…" He lets go of Patricia's arm and meets her eyes. "I- fuck, Yacker. I don't know what to say."

Some of those cuts were – _are _– fresh. Last night or this _morning_, fresh. He heard her sharp intake of breath as he brushed a few of them. He can tell how old scars are. There are more new than old, more red than pink, and almost no entirely white ones.

"You know I have a twin sister, right?"

"Piper?"

"That's the one. Obnoxious, goody two shoes, _perfect_ Piper." She spits the last words out like they have nails embedded in them, and they claw straight into his chest. It feels like poison, like they were laced with venom and now the intoxicating substance is permeating the air and seeping into his skin. "She was their dream. I was their nightmare."

"Yacker-"

"It's okay." Patricia's voice is thicker, now. She won't look at him. "Really. I stay here for every holiday – except summer – and avoid them at all costs when I'm home. It's a lot better than it has been."

"Do they…they don't- hurt you, or anything, do they?" His heart is speeding up again. The bugs under his skin are awake and out for blood, pressing their tiny stingers into his skin and sending pinpricks of pain throughout his body.

"They tell me I'm not good enough and that I'll never amount to anything, and I think that's okay with them, because she's so great. Makes up for everything I'm not, I guess. And that hurts. A lot, clearly." She motions to her arm. "But if you're asking if they've ever hit me, no."

"G-good…" Now he's the one shaking. "I-I mean, not good, obviously, but- they don't- they don't hit you. And that's…"

"Eddie…"

He swallows against the lump in his throat and presses his head against the wall, long enough that it starts to hurt. _breathe. you're fine. deep breaths. in, and out. in, and out. you got this. breathe. _

He slips one arm out of his own jacket, and then the other, slow, methodical, tries to ignore how badly his hands are shaking. It's so violent that he's almost unable to get the piece of clothing off; his body is surging up and his anxiety is spilling over, knowing, _you're not alone the jacket doesn't come off when you're not alone you're not alone the jacket doesn't come off why are you taking the jacket off you're not alone you're not alone you-_

"She hit me. Not all the t-time, or anything, but- when she was really mad. Usually about the divorce. 'Cause it was my fault, she said. I wasn't enough to get him to stay with us. With _her_."

"Mr. Sweet, your mom, I- _Eddie_…" He gives her the same nod of permission he asked for, the same access to his forearm that has her face crumpling right before him. "Oh, Weasel…"

"It's okay," he mumbles. "I'm out of there. Never going back."

"Does he know?" She looks from his arm to his eyes. Hers are filled with tears. "Your dad. Does he know about her?"

"Not everything," he says. He presses further into his lip, feels the skin break and welcomes the taste of copper. "Not most of it. She was awful when she was with him and I begged him to come here. And after a while, he got tired of hearing it, so he gave in."

"You needa tell him."

"I can't."

"Eddie-"

"I'm not ready. Neither of us is. And I can't- I _can't_ tell him about this. He won't understand."

"My parents wouldn't, either." Patricia slips her fingers into his and squeezes. "I thought about telling them, but I just…I don't wanna deal with the yelling and bitching and the whole, _why do you have to make everything so difficult, Patricia?_ It's not worth it."

"It's more," he mutters. "You deserve better."

"So do you."

"I got you, didn't I?"

"I think that's the grossest thing you've said to me since we started going out."

He rolls his eyes. "It's true. No one else here knows. I don't trust anyone enough yet. Except you. I know you won't use it against me."

Patricia sighs. "You're not the first guy that's liked me, y'know?"

He winces and presses harder into his lip, _breathe. It's okay. Everything's okay. _"Wow, Yacker. Really know how to make a guy feel special-"

"But you are the first guy I've ever felt safe with."

When he looks up at her, there are tears on her cheeks. They're watery black, from her mascara. She makes no move to wipe at her face. "And it's been really nice. To have someone, some_thing_ good, while everything isn't. You're my good. And I love that."

He scoots forward at the same time she does, pulls her into his arms and against his chest. She buries her face in his shoulder and he rests his chin against her head, closes his eyes and inhales heavily.

"Thanks for telling me," he says, when they've pulled away from each other and are back to their opposite sides of the wall, feet pressed together once again. "I know it wasn't easy."

"You too. And- I know I really can't say this without being a hypocrite, but- come to me, next time, okay?" She ventures. "Instead of doing it. I'll listen to you. You know that."

"I'll try." He reaches for her hand again. "And you- you should try too. After they call you or someone at school pisses you off, or whatever, really. I know it's where your head goes right away – mine does too – but I'll be there. When you need me."

"Me too."

* * *

The next time they go out on a date – he isn't even sure if he can call Sunday a date, really, rather than a conversation that got very real and very deep very quickly – Patricia appears in a black zip-up hoodie. The sight of it has his stomach turning and his heart racing because he knows, ever since he bought the jacket, that he has to switch to a hoodie with brand new cuts, because it pulls at them and hurts whenever he moves his arms and _she did it again she fucking did it again nonono-_

But then, Patricia smiles. She takes a seat on the other side of the picnic blanket and unzips her hoodie, and then pulls it off altogether, tosses it to the side and turns her attention to the basket Trudy made them.

And she doesn't reach for her hoodie at all, throughout. He keeps watching for a sign, hopes she isn't doing this to prove some kind of point and hurting herself in the process.

Patricia doesn't stop smiling. She calls him out on his (poor) attempts at jokes, and giggles at when he fumbles his sandwich into the grass. And later, when they pack up the basket and turn to lay on their backs and watch the clouds, she slips one hand into his and lets the other lay flat against the blanket, palm up.

He's so proud of her. His chest is warm, a feeling that grips and permeates, stretches to the furthest parts of his body with its wispy roots. It touches every dark place; lets there be light in a once eclipsed ocean of pure agony, cements itself as a permanent presence in all of his future plights. He wants to stay like this forever, lie here and breathe and allow himself to feel something so overwhelming and encapsulating and _good_, all at once. He's never been there before.

The future feels different. And it feels bright.

And he thinks his days of covering may come to an end sooner than he imagined.


End file.
